In the end, it is not well
by Sabelum
Summary: After the fall of the Dark Lord, a young Rita Skeeter is tasked with a different story: to find the truth behind the imprisonment of Sirius Black. Slightly AU.
1. Here life has death for neighbour

**Here life has death for neighbour**

 _But that I am forbid_

 _To tell the secrets of my prison-house,_

 _I could a tale unfold whose lightest word_

 _Would harrow up thy soul, freeze they young blood,_

 _Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,_

 _Thy knotted and combined locks to part,_

 _And each particular hair to stand an end,_

 _Like quills upon the fretful porpentine._

—William Shakespeare

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _10:00 a.m._

"Skeeter, there's been an incident in a Muggle area called Stamford. Take Wilfort with you." The brusque voice of Dennis Ashley cut across the din of the newsroom.

Rita Skeeter looked up from her typewriter, bleary eyed and somewhat puzzled at the request.

"Now? Can't it wait? I'm still working on the story about damages to Diagon after the celebration. Is there anyone else?"

It was mid-morning on Monday, November 2nd, a little over a day since the Dark Lord's disappearance on Halloween night, and no one on staff at the Daily Prophet had gotten any sleep since. There was simply too much to cover: Ministry response, Death Eater flight and retaliation, public outcry, and of course, the mystery of the Dark Lord's disappearance—his defeat?—itself.

"No. I'm sending you. Get ready. And be snappy about it. The Ministry's dispatched a squad of their top aurors." Ashley's tone brokered no argument.

"An entire squad?" Rita was already grabbing for her bag. Twenty aurors was serious—she paused—the situation could be incredibly dangerous.

Ashley saw the panic in her eyes and shook his head. "The scene is already locked down. You've nothing to worry about."

Rita nodded and let out a slow breath. _It's going to take a long time to get to a post-war mentality_.

Rita found Wilfort at the door, complacently stuffing the remains of a donut into his mouth. _Then again, maybe some of us are already there_ , she thought wryly.

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _10:13 a.m._

Roger Wilfort was a Hufflepuff who had never forgotten it. A sweater with his gold and black house colors stretched across his considerable bulk. Wilfort's outdated camera rested on a healthy paunch and bounced slightly as he walked. Rita was grateful for his girth as she peered out from behind him. Apparating blind to the scene of a crime was never fun and it always made her nervous. Neither of them wore robes, so that they could blend in with the inevitable Muggle police who would be present.

As they left the secluded copse of trees they had apparated into to avoid suspicion, Rita gasped. Smoke rose easily two hundred feet into the air. _What kind of spell could've done that?_ Magical battles were often destructive, but this was in a residential Muggle area, which even Death Eaters tried to avoid during skirmishes.

Questions raced through her mind like sparkling firecrackers. The voraciousness that had served Rita well as an up-and-coming reporter kicked in and she pushed feelings of anxiety to the back of her mind. "Wilfort! Come on—we need to get shots of this before the Ministry clears it up." Nerves forgotten, Rita jogged ahead as quickly as clunky heels and a weighty handbag would allow her. Wilfort shuffled along more slowly, on account of laziness and his age. He had been at the Prophet for decades; now, he was probably approaching 90 with a lifetime of experience taking photographs.

 _Most of us caught up on experience fast during the War_ , Rita thought bitterly as they rounded the corner to witness ground zero of the explosion. Now that they were closer, Rita could see that most of the smoke was actually steam. Several bushes and the side of one house were ablaze, but pale steam dominated the scene, billowing from a hole in the street.

Wilfort began snapping away, sending Rita into action. As she hurried forward to the cordon that law enforcement had set up, muggle police and aurors milled around the scene, official black robes mixing with pressed blue uniforms. Of course, that was what Rita saw. To any Muggle, the auror robes appeared simply as whatever uniform law enforcement Muggles would have expected to see at the scene of a crime. It was a charm that played upon the viewer's expectations. Rita recalled being told this on a date by a charming auror. Of course, he'd added a saucy wink and also mentioned that the robes' illusion could be modified to show a variety of other clothes, or no clothes at all. _That was a fun night._

Spotting an auror she knew, Rita pulled out a notepad and hurried over, angling sideways to push through the crowd that had gathered. Because she was in front of Muggles, Rita couldn't rely on her usual self-scribing quill. A shame—she always felt like writing detracted from the interview. "Underhill! Hey, Underhill." Stanley Underhill turned. He was only a hair taller than Rita when she wasn't wearing heels, and with them, she towered at least two inches above his stocky frame. Despite his serious mug, Underhill had a good sense of humor, and he was often willing to give Rita and other reporters the information they needed without too much trouble.

"Thirteen dead." Underhill paused with his back to the destruction, steam still rising from what Rita could now see was a crater. "Sirius Black killed thirteen. Muggle witnesses have confirmed it. He came in like a madman—told Peter Pettigrew he'd kill him. Pettigrew accused him of betraying the Potters. Black drew his wand and blew up the entire damn street. Spell hit a muggle pipe and it burst, which might account for the level of destruction. Apparently muggles transport explosive gas?" Wilfort shook his head incredulously, sighing at the absurdity of the idea. "Pipe's the official muggle story though. Of course, the only witnesses we have are muggles, so it's not hard to sell. All they saw were two angry men yelling at each other until a gas pipe burst and wrecked the street."

Rita frantically scribbled it all down, peering closer at the destruction around her. The dead body of an old man rested on an otherwise well-tended lawn. As Muggle police covered his body with a tarp, Rita caught a glimpse of a foot-long iron spike through his head that was the obvious cause of death. It was nothing Rita hadn't seen before. In fact, she knew exactly what spell caused it— _Spiculum_.

No, what drew her attention was the epicenter of the violence, a crater that spanned the entire street. Rita walked closer, hoping to get a better look.

Instantly, she regretted it. Rita Skeeter had seen horrific things in the past few years covering the war. Mutilated bodies, young and old. It didn't matter to Death Eaters, and aurors were hardly any pickier when they chose to kill. Just a little cleaner. This, however, was a different beast. In a way, this was as clean as it got, she supposed. A russet patina lined the crater, coating the broken and jagged concrete surface liberally. Farther away, intact bodies looked like they had been studded by concrete shrapnel. She stared in disgust and awe and almost doubled over when the smell hit her nose. "Awful, isn't it." She turned to Underhill, who was looking away. "All we found of Pettigrew was his finger. Not much left of anyone else. The steam's burnt most of the remains onto the concrete. That's what you're smelling. Burnt human."

"Sirius Black?" she asked, half-choking, checking to see if the name was correct. Underhill nodded. She had never met either Black or Pettigrew, but she knew that Black was an outcast from this dark family, and very close to the Potters. "Then the rumors about Black betraying the Potters…" Rita stepped back from the crater and turned to Underhill again, happy that she hadn't thrown up yet.

"That's what it looks like. Fudge was one of the first on the scene—God knows why. He's wearing red robes. You should ask him if you want more details. He'll be glad to have the attention. I'm going to clean up this mess and then I'm getting a fucking drink." With that, he turned away in an unusually dismissive move and left. Rita chose that moment to throw up.

While she emptied her stomach onto the singed asphalt, she felt a comforting hand on her back. It was Wilfort, there with his outdated camera and stupid sweater. From seemingly nowhere, he'd produced a flask. "Drink—it's just water." Gratefully, she downed it. Still on her knees, Rita started thinking about the way Underhill had acted.

Something had been off about him. Rita could tell, even through the normal horror that came with something as heinous as this. Something personal had happened. As she finished jotting down the last of what he'd said, she wrote one more note: _Underhill: acting odd? Ask Ogleby_. Warren Ogleby was Underhill's partner, but he wasn't at the scene because it had been an emergency call, not a routine mission, Rita surmised. Ogleby would know what was wrong. Partners always did. Hopefully he'd be more forthcoming than Underhill.

But that would have to wait. Thanking Wilfort, who was now solemnly taking pictures of the crater, she rushed off to find Fudge. After a few moments, she spotted him. Fudge stuck out in his garish, red robes. Rita wondered if they'd been appropriated charmed, as the aurors were. He was the Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, so she supposed it was his area of expertise. Still, that he was the first to the scene was unusual—aurors were nearly always first to incidents.

As a younger reporter, she might've dived into the fray and immediately peppered Fudge with questions. But after a few years of tutelage under Ashley, Rita knew how to observe.

Fudge's maroon robes were of excellent quality. Even now, in the steam and all the business of a crime scene, their EverClean charm was at work and the rich fabric was unblemished. His arms were behind his back, hands clasped together. Rita could just see the tip of a wand poking out of his underarm holster. As she circled, Rita saw him in profile. Fudge was middle aged, stout, and he had a very stiff back. Moving closer, she saw that he was sweating excessively and making small rocking motions on his heels. He was nervous—no, excited? A half smile. Excited and nervous, maybe.

Rita didn't blame him. Fudge had gotten the catch, and now he was being debriefed by an auror who Rita recognized instantly. Matthew Robards was the head of Internal Affairs. Robards was almost a head taller than Fudge, and he was built like a small ox. As she watched, Robards gave a snort of satisfaction, and turned away, apparently done with Fudge.

Seeing her chance Rita pounced. "Hello, Mr. Fudge. My name is Rita Skeeter, and I'm a reporter for the Daily Prophet."

"Y-yes, yes, hello," he greeted her excitedly.

She extended a slender hand only to be met by sweaty, chubby sausages that wrapped around her own in a mildly nauseating manner. Discreetly wiping the sweat from his hand on her robes, Rita continued undeterred, "I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about what happened here. I heard you were the first on the scene?" Fudge's chest puffed out. Evidently he was the easily flattered sort.

"Wuh-wuh-well yes, I was," he stammered. _Nervous, or excited?_ "I had just gotten into the office—I woke up late, you see—when someone ran past me in the Ministry Atrium, shouting about some explosion out in Stamford. I apparated to the scene, ready for a fight. Of course, I, uh, wasn't expecting this." Here, Fudge gestured to the gently smoldering bushes and the destruction behind him. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought.

"When you arrived? What happened with Black?" Rita spoke gently in an attempt to nudge him out of his reverie.

"Oh, yes, yes. Him." Fudge shuddered. "Laughing manically. He was—is—absolutely mad. Utterly raving. Street on fire, muggles screaming, and in the middle of it all, Black laughing wildly. He was laughing even as backup arrived and took him straight to Azkaban. I suppose I should count myself as lucky that he was too wrapped up in those crazy thoughts to blow up any more streets. I told him he was under arrest and he didn't even notice me." Rita scribbled his words down as quickly as she could. If Fudge's account was accurate, that was bizarre. But if Black had decided to let loose on Fudge and not come willingly, Rita was quite sure she would not be speaking to the man.

"Black was taken straight to Azkaban, you said?" An odd little detail in an odd story.

"Yes, yes. Far too dangerous to go anywhere else. Witnesses saw everything." Damn. If she wanted to get a comment from Black, she'd have to go to that awful place. Rita _hated_ dementors.

"Is there anything else you can tell me? Any reason you can think of that might have been behind his behavior?"

"Oh, well, I wouldn't presume to know what crazy nonsense the Dark Lord had been filling his head with."

How unimaginative. She'd have to lead him. "Do you think it could be because of the Dark Lord's disappearance? Perhaps he and Black were close?"

"Yes, yes, that's quite likely. Black, torn up over the Dark Lord." Dots seemed to connect for Fudge, and his eyes lit up. "Thank you Miss Skeeter—you've just helped tremendously. I must be going now, but here's my card. Send me an owl if you have any more questions. I look forward to seeing your story." With that, Fudge was off, moving through the crowd, shouting for Robards.

Rita looked down at the card. _What were you doing here, Cornelius Fudge?_ _Why was Black sent straight to Azkaban?_

Wilfort interrupted her thoughts. "Ready to go?" He was munching on another donut, produced from some mysterious location on his body. Rita grimaced.

"Not yet. I need to interview some of the muggles first." Wilfort nodded. Other photographers and reporters might have frowned or protested. Muggle witnesses were often discounted because they couldn't understand what was happening. Rita might have discounted them too, but Dennis Ashley had taught her otherwise.

The witnesses were gathered behind a muggle vehicle. An ambulance, if she remembered correctly. Ashley, a muggleborn himself, had emphasized the importance of understanding muggle culture. For a pureblooded witch like Rita, expeditions into the heart of muggle London had seemed like a journey into a different world. Rita shook her head. There was no use in getting caught up with thoughts about Ashley; there was a task at hand.

It irked her that his guidance still came through. _He'd talk to the children too. Children are good at watching_. Rita made her way into the circle of muggles and crouched down next to a boy and his mother. The boy had a small slice along his cheek, but otherwise looked fine.

She looked the boy's mother in the eye to check. A hesitant nod of assent. "Hello, my name is Rita. What's yours?" In cases like this, Rita knew simply listening wasn't enough to draw out the story.

"Nath'n." A name. That was good—it was a start. Rita smiled.

"That's a good name, Nathan. Can you tell me what you were doing before the explosion?"

"Th' bobbies already asked me. What'choo want?" Nathan looked suspiciously up at her. Damn. Maybe this wasn't going as well as it could have. She'd never really been good with kids, anyways.

"Well sweetie," she said, lacing her voice with enough sugar to kill a diabetic, "I work for a newspaper, and we need to tell everyone what happened here. Because you saw what happened, it's very important—you're very important—to letting the readers know the facts."

Nathan squinted at her again and then looked to his mother, who again, nodded. "OK. I guess I can tell you." Rita smiled a Cheshire grin.

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _12:05 p.m._

When she left the scene, Rita had over forty pages in a cheap, muggle pad of paper filled with notes and quotes from aurors, police officers, and five muggle witnesses. Halfway through her questioning, Wilfort had sat down on a patio and taken a nap. He had still been rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when they apparated back to the Prophet.

Meanwhile, Rita's mind was buzzing with questions. She needed to talk to Ashley about this. This was a story. This was far better than writing about stupid apothecaries needing to restock their newt eyes after spell damage had denatured the inherent magic. So chaotic were her thoughts that she didn't noticed Wilfort holding the door open for her and instead ran into his broad backside.

"You alright, Miss Skeeter?" A bemused smile played on his face, but Rita knew his question was serious. It wasn't every day that anyone witnessed a dozen people smeared across a street like jam on bread.

"Yes, yes." She snapped quickly. Then, more gently, "Thank you, though." Wilfort nodded, but still patted a gentle paw across her back as they parted ways; he, to develop the gruesome photos in the darkroom; she, to write the grisly details in the newsroom.

Ashley was waiting for her when she arrived at her desk. "I took the liberty of assigning your apothecary draft to Stebbins. I heard snippets of what happened. Brief me." Ashley was like that—he moved quickly. She wasn't sure how else to put it. With three-day-old grey stubble on a gaunt face, Ashley looked as much a wolf as a man. Red suspenders pulled black pants over a clean white shirt that Rita knew was only "clean" in the loosest sense of the word. During busy times, Ashley had a bad habit of scourgifying his clothing instead of washing them. As Rita followed Ashley into his office, she couldn't help but assess his backside.

"Stop looking at my ass, Skeeter." Rita blushed. It wasn't her fault, really. He was in very good shape for a fifty-year-old man. Five years ago, when she had just entered Ashley's tutelage, she had tried to seduce him. So what if he could've been her father? He was smart, good-looking, and the confidence with which he carried himself meant that most witches at the Prophet had set their eyes on Dennis Ashley at least once. Or at least his backside. Unfortunately, as the watercooler gossip went, no one had managed to bag and tag him. Rita was determined to be the first.

But even after plying him with alcohol (and a fair amount for herself, too), Ashley resisted her advances. Curious, Rita had followed him home one night and found out why. Looking through his window, Rita had seen Ashley and another man having hot, sweaty sex. The fact that Ashley was gay put a certain damper on things, but Rita was still determined to flirt with him.

"Tell me what happened." Ashley sank down into his massive reclining chair, leaned back, propped his feet onto the desk and put his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. He was ready to listen and absorb everything she said. Rita had marveled at the technique before. If you told him a story when he was like that, he would tell it back to you even better.

She began by explaining the extent of the damage—thirteen dead, street wrecked. Then she went through the interviews in chronological order, adding none of her own commentary. Ashley preferred it like that. If he sensed you were editorializing, he'd tell you to describe the scene from the beginning to figure out where you went wrong, where you stopped being objective and why. Rita thought he also did it for pure, malicious fun.

After she finished relating the news, Rita stood there. Sometimes it would be a minute or more before Ashley responded and asked for clarification, or what her view was. Once, Rita had heard, he kept a reporter standing for half an hour while he mulled over the details and quotes. This time, he took only ten seconds. "Skeeter, something's fucked. Death Eaters are either killed in battle or taken to Ministry holding cells for processing. No one is sent directly to Azkaban."

Ashley sighed. "But to be blunt, I don't have time for this. Voldemort might be dead. One bad pureblood, a dead wizard and a dozen dead muggles can't occupy all of my time." Rita slumped.

"But they're going to occupy yours. This is your only assignment for the time being. Put everything else on hold. I want you to go to Azkaban as soon as you can. See if Black says anything besides maniacal laughter."

Rita gulped, nervous, but elated. This was a huge favor—Ashley needed all the reporters he could get right now. To effectively sideline her for this was to have incredible faith in her and her instincts. "Yes sir. Thank you sir." Ashley nodded.

"Type up your notes before you leave so that Jensen can write the brief. Your handwriting is atrocious. Send Wilfort in, while you're at it. I want to see those photos." Rita sighed and left. Ashley didn't keep a secretary, even though he probably should have.

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _2:05 p.m._

As it turned out, getting to Azkaban was a lot harder for Rita Skeeter than it was for Sirius Black.

Azkaban was guarded by more than just magical wards and dementors. It was also heavily fortified by administrative red tape and bureaucratic malaise. Visiting Azkaban meant first getting approved to visit Azkaban, and that meant going to the Ministry.

"Sixth Floor. Department of Magical Transportation." The cheery voice was grating on her nerves. She had been rerouted from the second floor (Department of Magical Law Enforcement) to the third floor (Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes) because the incident happened in a muggle area, and now to the sixth floor. Theoretically, she should be able to show her press pass, ask nicely, and hitch the next ride to Azkaban. _But the way things have been going, I might have more luck by just pulling a Sirius Black._

When the doors opened, Rita stalked out into a surprisingly pleasant office with soft, unobtrusive wooden surfaces and tasteful grey wallpaper.

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the secretary, a woman Rita did not recognize.

"No, but I need to visit Azkaban. I've got a press pass." Rita rustled in her robes and pulled the badge forward. A miniature image of Rita smiled and blew the secretary a kiss. The secretary examined the badge and ran her wand over the image as a precaution. It lit up a friendly green, a signal that it was valid.

"You're good to go. Take this form and head down the hallway. Azkaban is the third office on the left."

The third office on the left looked like a small _Bombarda_ had gone off inside of it. Papers were strewn about haphazardly and Rita was sure that the shelves stuffed with files were only still standing through the judicious use of binding charms and what looked like half a roll of spellotape. The occupant in question was a bedraggled witch with dark hair and a healthy smattering of freckles. A thin silver chain hung from her neck.

"Elspeth Grinnell. You are?" She ended the question with a yawn that was almost, but not quite suppressed. "Sorry, it's been a lot of shifts and transports to Azkaban in the past few." Elspeth gestured at the mess, as though it was an explain-all for the state of her life right now.

Perhaps it was, Rita mused. Being in charge of transportation to Azkaban couldn't have been a particularly scintillating job. In fact, Rita was almost positive that she'd be escorted by a wizard past his prime from Wilfort's generation. She'd been so prepared that she'd already unbuttoned the top button of her blouse and unlaced the front of her robes partway. These sorts of cushy desk jobs went to old timers, not young, attractive witches.

As Elspeth filled out Rita's form and began looking for a place to file the poor piece of paper, Rita continued to assess the room. "You're new to this job." Her forms had been filled out in spidery, but smooth handwriting. Thick strokes of smudged ink—likely from a left-handed writer—covered the rest of the files.

"Yep." Now Elspeth looked down. "This is my third week on the job." She paused, as though fumbling over something in her mind. "My, er, predecessor was kissed when several dementors went rogue and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Rita blanched. "I'm sorry." She'd seen victims of the kiss before after the Wizengamot had sentenced heinous felons. The emptiness that had exuded from the corpse she had seen stuck with her. Not for the first time, she wondered what she was getting into, chasing after this story.

"'s alright. I drew straws to get this job out of the auror academy. It was this or the front lines. I felt bad about bein' a coward for a week, until 'bout a third of my class was killed in a skirmish with Death Eaters."

Rita said nothing; a rarity.

"Well, here we are. 's all done. Now, take this and follow me." Elspeth handed Rita a thin silver chain identical to the one around her neck.

Moving to the back of the office, Elspeth pulled aside a curtain to a fireplace. "Special floo." She knocked approvingly on the chimney's misshapen rocks and its old, cracking mortar. Pulling a pinch of Floo powder out of a bag on her side, the dark haired woman set a green fire flaring. "The chain is for the fireplace. Anyone not wearing the chain would… well, let's just say it wouldn't be a pretty ending." Elspeth smirked. Rita nervously adjusted the fine links, as if looking for a proper orientation.

"Don't fuck with it. C'mon." With that, Elspeth stepped into the flames and she was out of view. Gritting her teeth and holding tightly onto the chain, Rita stepped into the inferno.

-§-


	2. Wan waves and wet winds labour

**Wan waves and wet winds labour**

 _What roar is that?—'tis the rain that breaks_

 _In torrents away from the airy lakes,_

 _Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,_

 _And shedding a nameless horror round._

 _Ah! well known woods, and mountains, and skies,_

 _With the very clouds!—ye are lost to my eyes._

 _I seek ye vainly, and see in your place_

 _The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,_

 _A whirling ocean that fills the wall_

 _Of the crystal heaven, and buries all._

 _And I, cut off from the world, remain_

 _Alone with the terrible hurricane._

—William Cullen Bryant

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _11:30 a.m._

The floor was dark and wet.

Whatever the wetness was, it was sticky and smelled strongly of iron. He wrinkled his nose.

Oh.

It was his blood.

As consciousness came back to him, agony ripped through his body with electric force. He convulsed, screaming breathlessly and soundlessly. Dirty paws—no, hands—found their way to his side where a deep blood-soaked gouge had been treated with the most cursory of attention. A medi-wizard at the scene had pulled the shrapnel out, but evidently had left the rest of the healing for Sirius to do himself.

Sirius stared at the pool of blood in horror, transfixed by the pain and the blood and the reality of the situation. Here he was, stuck in prison, sitting uselessly in a pool of blood, while James and Lily were dead and the Ministry thought he'd murdered a dozen muggles. He'd left Harry with Rubeus Hagrid. And Pettigrew? Sirius smiled as he thought about the fact that the bastard was rotting in tiny, scorched pieces.

Before he got too lost in thought about just _how much_ he hated Peter Pettigrew, Sirius decided to more thoroughly assess his surroundings. He was in a prison cell—that much was clear. It measured about eight feet on each side. The walls were made of a hard, slate-grey rock that had never really been properly filed down. Pushing off the floor to stand up, Sirius nearly cut himself on the rough surface.

A small amount of light filtered through a window at the back of his cell. Located almost seven feet up, the window was only a foot in diameter, and covered with interlocking iron bars. Under it was his bed (a slab of raised stone that looked marginally smoother than the rest of the floor) and his toilet (a small metal pail).

Looking out the window, he saw a murky grey sea that would surely have stretched for miles if the mist hadn't claimed it. Salty air found his nose, and he watched the spray of waves hitting the rocky side of the tower that was, itself, an island.

 _Azkaban._

This must have been one of the maximum security cells he'd heard about. No accommodations, no space, and absolutely no magic. The clinking of chains around his ankles reminded him that he was also bound, albeit loosely, to the walls themselves. A pair of heavy iron manacles rested on his ankles, chafing the skin where they sat.

Grimacing, Sirius walked up to the bars of his cell to look out at the hallway. At least the chains allowed him that much leeway.

Nearly as thick as one of his wrists, the bars were spaced out enough that Sirius could poke his head out between them and look around at a foreboding corridor that lacked even lit sconces. Too much energy to waste on prisoners, probably. Gripping the bars, Sirius could feel that they weren't just a physical barrier. No, there was definitely magic at work here. Certainly no way out, so long as the bars were in place. After all, when would they need to be opened? There was a small section near the ground that opened. That was where the dementors would place trays of food, and take out his waste, presumably. Any attempt to escape would likely be greeted with a Kiss while they were present.

"New blood, eh? Who're you, boy?" The growling voice came from the cell next to his, and Sirius started.

"None of your business." Sirius stepped away from the bars and retreated to his stone slab, chains clinking all the way.

"Harh. You'll lose that temper soon, boy. They'll break your spirit." A mad cackle. "If they don't break your mind first." The voice dissolved into giggles. Sirius couldn't see the man because their cells were adjacent, but he could picture the grinning, mad face of those who spent much too long around Dementors.

"Oh yeah?"

"Tha's right, boy," the man said, swallowing his letters with a gravelly snarl that was vaguely Scottish. "Happensta everyone. Ya think it'll be fine; just some scary ghosts in black cloaks. Ya don't know nothin'. They wait at your cell, boy, make you relive the worst y've ever seen. D'yah hear me, boy? Tha worst. And each time they come by, it comes easier ta the surface. What's yer worst mem'ry, boy? Might as well bring it to mind now, 'fore the shades rip it from your precious little skull."

Sirius didn't answer.

"Mines are th' screams." The man paused, thinking about it. "It's not _yer_ guilt, ya see? It's the Shades, they bring the guilt. They'll make it into yer worst, draw out the dark marrow within ye. I never regretted a thin' when I murdered 'er. But prison does things. Gives a man time to think. Gives 'im time to regret what 'es done. Killed my wife, ya see? Nearin', oh, 'bout twelve years now." Sirius could almost hear the fond smile in the man's voice, as he began to describe how he'd killed and mutilated her body.

"Laura was her name," the man began in a sing-song voice. "'er death was mine to claim, ya see? She got home awful late one night, and I—well I'd been drinkin'. Ya know how it is. So I got maself into a whole big fight with her, 'n when she finally turned 'er back, I broke my bottle on 'er head. Knew what I wanted ta do then, boy. Don't ya know it too? I slit 'er throat and watched the blood drain out of her pale little-"

Tuning the deranged man out, Sirius stared resolutely at the floor in front of him, trying to find patterns in the congealing blood from his own wound.

That was funny. The blood had coagulated faster than he would've thought. Sirius frowned. Then his eyes widened. The chill that swept through his cell was a familiar one.

Vaguely, he was aware that the deranged man in the cell next to him had stopped gleefully recounting his wife's death, and was instead moaning piteously and scratching up at the walls.

"No! Please, oh lord, please no. Not now… not again. Keep it away—no… no… " The cold intensified and the man in the next cell was reduced to incoherent pleading. This was the aura of a Dementor. Sirius remembered where he'd felt it before: Orion Black had taken glee in watching convicted criminals be dragged away, or even kissed by Dementors after their sentencing. It was a love that he'd failed to pass on to his son.

As the cold drew closer and tentacles of frost crept into his cell, memories began to jettison themselves to the surface of his mind.

" _Get out. You-you filthy animal… you have disgraced this name, this family—you have disgraced ME!" At the last word, her eyes bulged and sparks flew from a wand that was pointed at Sirius' heart._

It had been a liberating moment for young Sirius Black, but that emotion seemed almost nonexistent as Sirius recalled vividly the fear and the abandonment that had originally been trumped by glee at angering his mother, by excitement at the chance of freedom.

The manacles which encircled his ankles bit into his shin and broke him from the vision. Unconsciously, he had moved back, pressing up against the far wall in the futile effort to escape the cold, to escape the hell of despair that approached.

Three black cloaks came into view in front of Sirius' cell. Then, the screaming began. Sirius wasn't sure whether it even came from his own mouth.

 _Lily and James lay, side by side, in a sort of repose that might have fooled him had they been somewhere other than the floor of their house, covered in dust. In his grief, he'd mindlessly carried James up the stairs to Lily, so that they could be side by side. That's what James would have wanted. Tears made it hard to see, hard to even care about the cries of the infant he held to his shoulder._

Pain wracked through him as he surfaced. A clawed hand reached through the bars and seemed to grasp for him.

 _Peter Pettigrew stood before him, a nervous smile on his face as he waved his hands, trying to pacify, to placate._

" _You killed them." He almost didn't recognize his own voice._

" _You don't understand, S-sirius." Peter's voice was squeakier than usual—almost ratlike._

" _You sold Lily and James to Voldemort—DO YOU DENY IT?" His own voice rose to become violently loud at the question. The muggles in the area had started to gather at the commotion they were causing._

" _You don't understand!" whined Pettigrew, eyes darting frantically around. "He would have killed me, Sirius!"_

" _THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!'" he found his own voice roaring back. "DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!"_

 _Magic ripped through the air between them as the vision faded and the icy chill abated._

After what seemed an eternity, the Dementors were gone, and all that was left was for Sirius to fall into the merciful blackness of sleep.

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _3:00 p.m._

"Sirius Black?" The voice asked tentatively, an edge of the unsureness from someone who wasn't used to being unsure.

Groggily, Sirius opened eyelids that had been glued together from some combination of blood and tears and the dampness of the cell.

Wavy blonde hair swam into view, and Sirius propped himself up from his slouched position against the cell wall to get a better look. On a narrow, pretty face were perched a set of fine, gold rimmed glasses. Eloquently arched eyebrows above light green eyes considered his predicament as he spat out blood. His tongue—he must've bitten his tongue when the Dementors had appeared.

Looking around his cell, Sirius noticed that there was a hunk of bread and a pitcher of water. Clumsily, he leaned forward, crawling a little to reach the pitcher. Even with the dampness from the surrounding ocean, his mouth had somehow become unbelievably parched. Gratefully, he gulped down cupfuls of water, heedless of the spilled drops that wetted his damaged robes. It didn't really matter, after all. He was a prisoner; he had no one to impress.

Finished with the water, he turned to look at the woman who was patiently waiting, assessing. "Who's asking?"

"Rita Skeeter, Mr Black. I'm a reporter from the Daily Prophet-" Sirius snorted. "-and I had some questions."

"Must've picked the short straw, to have to come here and interview me, huh?" At this, she pursed her lips. Sirius thought the expression reminded him a little like a younger McGonagall, with her professional robes and stern face. Of course, McGonagall never had shoulder length, wavy blonde hair or worn lipstick that suggested enticing things. Unbidden, memories of her reprimanding him and James as young teens popped into his mind before he could ruthlessly shut them out.

"Edgewood, you can leave—it's fine. I'd prefer our conversation be private." Skeeter addressed the auror standing patiently behind her, who Sirius noticed for the first time.

"You sure, Ms Skeeter?" The deep, drawling tone belied that fact that he certainly did not trust Sirius alone with that woman. For the first time in his life, that fear was because someone thought Sirius might literally be a lady-killer of the more homicidal variety.

"Yes, Edgewood. I don't think our 'friend' here is capable of getting to his feet, let alone hurting me." Sirius lazily gave her the finger out of habit before he realized what he'd done. "Not a good way to make friends, Mr Black."

Sirius was silent, a fact that would've shocked his friends. _If they weren't, y'know, dead_. _Or traitors._

The blonde woman sighed. "I don't want this to be difficult, Mr Black. I just want to ask you a few questions about what happened."

Sirius gave no indication that he'd heard anything the reporter had said for a good minute. Then: "Were you at the crime scene, Ms Skeeter?" She nodded. "Then you know what happened."

Frustration set in, and Rita's knuckles grew white. She had been at his _fucking_ crime scene. She had been at that fucking _massacre_. She had seen what he'd _done_ , and she certainly hadn't come all the way to fucking Azkaban to be mocked.

"Do you think this is funny, Mr Black, that you will rot in Azkaban for the rest of your life for murder? Do you think it's funny that their blood was so finely smeared on the concrete we couldn't even tell who was who? Do you think it's funny that thirteen human beings are now dead because of your actions?" Rita exploded, the emotions that had built up inside her tumbling out at his nonchalance.

"Twelve."

"…Excuse me?" She'd definitely had that number correct.

"Pettigrew doesn't count as a human. He's vermin. Was vermin." Sirius spat the words. Well, that was interesting. The first real bit of emotion she'd gotten from him.

"Could you tell me why that is?"

"You wouldn't believe a murdering lunatic in a prison cell."

"It doesn't matter whether or not I believe you, Mr Black. I am a reporter, and it is my job to quote you accurately, regardless of whether or not I believe you." She spoke, sounding more confident about her impartiality than she felt.

A harsh, fake, bark of a laugh emitted from the prisoner. "If you insist. I guess it doesn't matter any more. You ever heard of the Fidelius Charm, Ms Skeeter?"

"No, I haven't. Could you elaborate?" The gentle scratching of her quill began as Sirius started his explanation.

"It's a spell… more than a spell, really. The Fidelius is a type of ward. One of the most powerful out there. It's incredibly complex—requires days of set up and a ton of magic. Anyways, after all the preparations are set and the spell is cast, one person becomes the 'Secret Keeper.' For everyone else, the secret vanishes. Usually, the secret is a location, like a house. Doesn't matter if it's in a memory, in a book, or if you're staring straight at it—it's gone. The spell's protections are dependent upon that Secret Keeper. If the Secret Keeper chooses, he can tell anyone he wants." Rita frantically wrote down his explanation, perplexed at why he was explaining this. This Fidelius Charm must have been incredibly complex and obscure for it to do what it did, to not be very popular.

"A couple months ago, we found out that Lil-… and J-…" He paused, struggling with the names. "We found out that the Potters were going to be targeted by Voldemort." The blonde witch twitched badly at that and looked nervously down the hallway, as though she expected the Dark Lord to resurrect himself right into Azkaban. Sirius ignored her and continued. "So Dumbledore placed their home in Godric's Hollow under the Fidelius, with me as the Secret Keeper."

A maddened grin spread across his face. "But I thought I was too clever for that. Everyone in the Order—Dumbledore's secret vigilante army, probably disbanded now," he explained. "Everyone knew that I was the Secret Keeper. We had a mole, and I was determined to draw him out. So what did I do? I transferred my position of Secret Keeper to weak, pathetic, Peter Pettigrew. Talentless, little Peter. Who would have suspected him?" The grin strained and threatened to break as Sirius let out another harsh, barking laugh.

Rita stared in horror, unsure whether it was worse to believe his tale or not.

"You get it now, don't you? You see it. Peter was weak. Weak enough to be easy prey for Voldemort." Another flinch. "And that's exactly what the bastard did. Scuttled over and told his master where… where the Potters were. You know what happened there." Sirius gestured vaguely, trying to avoid the reality of their deaths. "I turned up about half an hour later. Loaned my bike to Rubeus Hagrid—he needed it to bring little Harry to Dumbledore. Hope he keeps it. I certainly don't need it, in here."

"And then, Mr Black?" The blonde witch was scribbling frantically, trying to write it all down. If half of what Black said was true, this could be the biggest scoop of her career.

"I hunted the fucker down and I blew him into smithereens." Sirius shrugged, but a glint in his eyes betrayed the flat affect in his voice.

"Could-could you elaborate on how you did that, and what happened during your confrontation?" Her wording was clinical, but her voice shook as she remembered the destruction.

"Sure. I have a pretty good nose, so I found the vermin easily. He decided to flee to a place where there were witnesses, but to be honest, I didn't really care at that point. All I wanted to do was paint the ground with his blood." Sirius frowned. "But little Peter had been holding back on us, I guess. He managed to block half a dozen spells—even evaded a _Bombarda_ that took out half of the street. He dragged a poor muggle family out of their car. I thought he was going to use them as human shields, but instead he messed up his next spell. Absolutely massive explosion. It turned everyone around him into red paste—must've gotten Peter too. Idiot thought he was good enough to use complex detonation spells and robbed me the satisfaction of killing him. If you're asking why I stayed, well, I knew I was indirectly responsible for several of the deaths, so I just waited and surrendered when the aurors and that nitwit got there."

"Nitwit? Do you mean Cornelius Fudge?"

Sirius snorted. "That's the one. Dunno why he was at the scene early. He got there before Crouch."

"Crouch was there?" Rita hadn't seen him, she definitely would've remembered if the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement himself was present.

"Oh yeah—he's the one who had my wand snapped and sent me straight to Azkaban."

"Well, that is a _little_ presumptive." Rita found it hard to fault Crouch, considering the situation he'd jumped into. "When is your trial, then?"

"What trial? I'm here for life. Isn't that clear from the cell, Miss Reporter?" Sirius glared lazily at Rita from his seat on the ground.

"W-well surely there's been a mistake. Everyone's got a trial. The Dark Lord himself probably would've gotten a trial if he'd been captured alive. How do you know there isn't one at a later date?"

Sirius smiled, a slightly unhinged little grin. "I told you I've got a good nose. I've also got some pretty decent ears," he said with false modesty. "Crouch told one of his flunkies that there'd be no trial. And what did I care? What do I care? I as good as murdered my friends—not to mention a dozen muggles."

Rita stared through the bars.

"Are you now, or have you ever worked for the Dark Lord?"

"No."

"Do you have the Dark Mark?"

Sirius didn't respond, but merely rolled up his sleeve to reveal pale, unblemished skin. Some Death Eaters had used complex glamours to hide theirs in case of suspicion. But here in Azkaban, no illusion would hold, and neither dirt nor grime was strong enough to blot out the writhing serpent and skull. Rita drew in her breath.

"Did you intentionally kill any muggles?"

Grudgingly, Sirius spoke. "I had to deflect a spell… I had to divert it away from me. There was no time, and I didn't look back. But I know that what I did I killed him."

Images flashed before Rita's eyes, and she recalled the body of an old man with an iron spike driven through his skull, blood discoloring his khaki pants, flecks of brain matter trapped in the woolen grasp of his sweater. He was the first corpse that she had seen—likely the grandfather of one of the sobbing families behind the police tape.

Sirius looked up. The woman had stopped writing.

"Are you guilty, Sirius Black?" He laughed. "Guilty of the crime that you have been accused of?" Dark eyes glinted and Rita shivered, in spite of herself.

"Haven't we been over this, Miss Reporter? I killed Peter, and I'd do it again if I could bring the wretch back from the grave. I led to the death of those muggles. I let my friends die. I'm guilty as sin."

Rita closed her notepad—a cheap, muggle contraption, but useful in Azkaban where magic was verboten—and turned to leave. She had to report back to Ashley immediately.

"We'll see."

Heels clicked down the hallway, and Sirius was once again left in the darkness, with only the soft snores of his deranged neighbor and the distant presence of the dementors, who would surely come to greet him soon.

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _3:30 p.m._

"Glad he didn't eat you."

Rita shook her head. "No, I don't think he would've, even if the bars weren't there." Sirius Black was dangerous—that much was obvious. But she doubted he was dangerous to her. And, if what he said was true, he might've had a good reason for what he'd done.

"Well, whatever you say, Miss Skeeter. Good luck with that story you're writing. Hope you don't have to come back here—miserable place. But it beat getting killed on the front lines." She nodded as Edgewood busied himself with the preparations for sending her back via some esoteric magic that predated portkeys.

Evidently, sending someone from Azkaban was much more onerous and intensive than sending someone to Azkaban. The floo network that linked Azkaban to the Ministry office was one-way, for good reason, in addition to being separated from the rest of the floo network.

"Although, if you do find yourself back here, fresh fruit would be lovely. They mostly send us the dried kind. Prevents scurvy, but isn't much for the palate." He shrugged helplessly, embarrassed at asking. Guards tended to serve month long shifts at Azkaban, to minimize the coming and going. It wasn't often he'd see a new face.

Rita's eyes softened. "Sure, Edgewood. I'll be sure to bring some the next time I come."

Edgewood grinned and stepped back to begin the ritual. Blue lightning arced from his wand as he whirled it around his head like a lasso, sending it forward where it collided with a stone tablet. Suddenly, the bland looking slab in front of her was lit on the edges with that same blue fire. Rita was entranced—this was _powerful_ magic, magic that you could feel thrumming through existence. Stepping onto the tablet, she caught the whispers of an incantation.

" _Apsolve… Consurrexi quod vinicula…Veni, fulminis… Portam!"_ The air around her roared, resisting the forces that worked to pull reality apart. Then, nothing. For a fleeting second, Rita felt weightless, felt everything leave her shoulders before the world was pulled away at a dizzying pace and she was tugged by her navel.

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _3:33 p.m._

Naturally, she landed in an undignified lump on a hard wooden floor. As Rita regained her bearings, she became aware that she had, in fact, landed in some sort of prison cell. _This is ironic_. If it was a prison cell, it was the nicest she'd ever seen. Finely carved wooden pillars stretched from floor to ceiling and shined with recently applied varnish. A faintly tinkling bell on the outside of the cell rang, and Rita heard a voice.

"Coming!"

Within a few seconds, a harried looking woman ran into the room. "Sorry about the wait, Rita—and the security precautions. Everyone has to go through 'em, even Minister Bagnold." Rita nodded.

"That's okay. It's not _nearly_ as bad as the cells in Azkaban." A wry smile appeared on Elspeth's face while she fussed with a massive looking, ornate oaken key.

"You know, most of the bigwigs don't dare to smile, much less make a joke, coming back from Azkaban. You must have some nerves, huh?" The door clicked open with a sonorous chime and Rita let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Oh, really?" Rita spoke in an offhand manner, as though she wouldn't have guessed just that about ministry bigwigs, or inexplicably pleased with the compliment.

"You need any help, you let me know, okay?" Elspeth smiled, handing Rita her wand back.

"You, know, I might just be coming back to visit you sooner than you think." With a flashed grin, she was gone.

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _3:55 p.m._

The Daily Prophet's main office was a skinny building that rose almost five stories high, taller than most of the surrounding shops, but not out of place. Its imposing, but bland red brick facade welcomed Rita like an old friend. The doormen, Grunderson and Granderson—both of whom Rita was nearly positive carried some troll blood—did not. Nevertheless, they moved their massive frames aside and opened the door to let Rita pass by.

Before the war, the Prophet had used only one doorman. He'd been more of a receptionist than anything, and Rita remembered him fondly. Intent on destroying the Prophet's offices, the Death Eaters had drawn their wands to kill what they thought was a harmless old man. They hadn't bet on the fact that the Prophet's doorman was a retired hit-wizard of some ability. In the ensuing firefight, Romulus Armorin brutally murdered three of their number and raised every alarm in the Alley before succumbing to blood loss. Rita missed him and his kind brown eyes. Now she had to deal with two trolls. _Thanks, You-Know-Who_.

Rita took the stairs two at a time to her office on the second floor, where the main newsroom was. Well, it wasn't really an office—more of a 'high cubicle.' Still, it gave a modicum of privacy. A hastily cast spell told Rita that no one had tampered with any of her belongings, and she gratefully collapsed into her chair. Closing her eyes for the first time since the day had started, she reflected on just how much had happened since being assigned to the story in the morning.

A voice that was all-too close to her ear broke the reverie.

"Nap time is later, Skeeter. Time to debrief." Dennis Ashley smirked, and Rita could almost feel it from how damn close he was.

Rita groaned.

-§-

AN: Dialogue in Sirius' flashback is adapted from Prisoner of Azkaban Chapter 19: The Servant of Lord Voldemort.


	3. Of what may come hereafter

**Of what may come hereafter**

 _Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how;_

 _Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest?_

 _Why should I strive to show what from thy lips_

 _Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark,_

 _And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes:_

 _I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,_

 _Until a melancholy numbs my limbs;_

 _And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,_

 _Like one who once had wings._

—John Keats

-§-

 _02 November 1981_

 _4:30 p.m._

"Sit down, Skeeter. Your pacing isn't helping anyone."

Dennis Ashley's head was in his hands and he sounded unusually frustrated and tired.

"With all due respect, I don't know what to write, sir. We've got uncorroborated info from Black that makes this all highly questionable, and would answer many questions while raising a few more. We've got claims about Crouch-"

Wilfort jumped in at this, an unusual intrusion. "That... I can actually vouch for. At least… in part. Hitwizards don't think much of an aging photographer." He smiled, raising tufted white eyebrows. "I got close enough to hear some of them mention something about, what was it they called it? Mmm, I think it was 'Crouch's crusade'—yes that was it."

"Well, that's an interesting tidbit, but unless we can get proof that Crouch actually sent Black straight to Azkaban, snapped his wand without a trial, and doesn't plan to have a trial, there's no story. I agree that it's suspicious, that he should have a Dark Mark—but Black could still be lying—they could have put him in a Ministry holding cell and then quickly transferred him on the basis of being dangerous." Rita began to object, but Ashley held up his hand. "I'm not saying I disagree with your assessment that he didn't seem dangerous to you. I'm just saying what the Ministry could have done; if they had done that, it would technically be legal. That said, you have a story to finish. I had Jensen write up a brief for the evening paper, but I want a full story for the morning edition. We'll discuss how to follow the story tomorrow."

"Anyways, it's getting late." On cue, Wilfort yawned. "Skeeter, you need to get started on the story. I can't keep it out of the paper, but it's clear there's more to this. I'm going to put it below the fold—which frankly, is not where it should be—with some of the photos Wilfort took. Emphasize the damage. Downplay the angle we're going after. I don't want them to catch wind that we're following Black's imprisonment, Fudge's and Crouch's involvement. They're sure to know we know, but have probably calculated that we won't care. Not a bad guess. I have too many stories and too few reporters. Certainly not many who are willing to go out of their way to Azkaban to hunt down a source." Ashley looked appreciatively at Skeeter. She flushed under the praise and was grateful that a steaming cup of tea had already fogged up her glasses.

"Thanks, sir."

"You're welcome, Skeeter. Anyways, I'm going to take a nap in this chair. I want a draft of the story on my desk in an hour and a half. Remember: Don't talk to anyone about this story without clearing it with me beforehand. We need to stay ahead of Crouch if there's something there."

Nodding wearily, Rita got up and went to her desk to get started, and Wilfort trundled off to develop more photos.

 _STAMFORD — Spell damage resulted in an explosion which killed twelve muggles and one wizard, Peter Pettigrew. The alleged perpetrator, Sirius Black, confronted Pettigrew…_

-§-

 _03 November 1981_

 _12:30 a.m._

Rita stumbled home, nearly apparating into her front door. Fumbling with her keys, she opened the door only to be greeted with a pair of insistent, glaring eyes.

"Oh shoot. I'm sorry, Gwyd, it was a real busy day. I'll feed you in a sec." The black cat continued to glower balefully at Rita, as though it understood her excuse and still didn't buy it. Sometimes Rita wondered whether there wasn't more than a little kneazle in him. All too often, the bushy-tailed black beast seemed to understand her… when it suited him. With a flick of her wand, yellow lights flickered into existence, like shining little _Lumos_ around the room.

Expectant, the cat paced urgently behind Rita while she made her way to the kitchen. She had adopted Gwyd—short for Gwydion, a hero of Welsh mythology and a noted trickster—a few years back, when she was in between jobs. He had been a hungry kitten on the streets of Knockturn Alley, insistently pressing up against her legs with affection, even though she rebuffed him. When she went into shops to inquire about openings, he waited there, staring through the window like a child before a candy display. After nearly an hour of failures, she picked up the cat and took him home with her. The next day, the Prophet hired her. Gwyd had been at her side, a good luck charm in her purse. Over the past few years, he had become a constant in her life, where men and even most friends had not been.

Tap faucet with wand, grab kettle, fill kettle, place kettle on stove, light burner with wand. _A well practiced routine_ , Rita mused while Gwyd wound himself around her legs. With a yawn, she reached into the cupboard where she kept a bag of muggle cat food. Sometimes she'd spoil him with tuna, or meat from takeout, but muggle cat food was cheaper and much easier to store. Soon, the sound of chewing and contented cat noises reached her ears.

A cheerful whistle alerted Rita that the water was ready. For Rita, tea wasn't about getting up—she never drank it in the mornings. It wasn't even about the comfort of preparation, or the familiarity of the scent. No, tea was just a medium for Rita. Asphodel was known for the potent qualities its root had in many potions, especially those that involved sleep and dreams. Rita wasn't interested in arts of the apothecary; she just needed to sleep. Two petals from an asphodel flower would do the trick, like it had every night after Rita had seen the hell that the Death Eaters had inflicted on Wizarding Society.

It wasn't a potion of Dreamless Sleep—those were expensive and powerful, used primarily for victims of long-term dementor exposure or those cursed with chronic nightmares—but it worked. The white lily was bitter, but Rita knew she would be grateful for the magical drug's effects. Early on during the war, nightmares had haunted her until an older reporter had told her about asphodel.

She'd never gotten to thank him for the advice; he'd been killed the next day. _Oh well._

Disrobing, Rita fell easily into a deep sleep, eager to put the day behind her.

-§-

 _03 November 1981_

 _8:20 a.m._

In the end, she was only twenty minutes late to the office. So she'd overslept. So what. It was well-deserved. She still got in before most people, anyways.

"You're late."

 _Dammit_. Dennis Ashley was waiting next to her cubicle with a mug of coffee and a wry smile. He had finally shaved, but he looked no less tired, and the creases on his face seemed to have grown creases.

"We need to talk about how to follow the story. Come on."

Obediently, unhappily, Rita followed Dennis Ashley to his office.

"Get out of my chair, Fenetre. Oz, make room for Skeeter on the couch." There was no real bite to his words, and it was clear to Rita why. Anaïs Fenetre and Osbert Puck were two of the most senior reporters at the Prophet. Fenetre was probably the only person, aside from the publisher, Wilky Cuffe, who could get away with sitting in Ashley's prized chair.

"Fine, fine, Dennis. Don't get your knickers in a twist." The witch spoke languidly, but she conceded her place with a smile, and instead sat on the edge of the oaken desk. Ashley ignored the jibe, and sat down heavily.

Anaîs Fenetre was nearing sixty and her grey hair was cropped short. Sharp brown eyes assessed Rita, who tried not to look nervous. This was the woman who had rooted out corruption in the highest echelons of the Ministry during the '60s, when graft had run rampant as Ministry officials had traded favors to secure the development of Horizont Alley. Her counterpart, Osbert Puck, had no less illustrious a career, chronicling the end of the Second World War and the battle between Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald.

"I assume you've both read Skeeter's story?"

"About Black? Nasty man." Osbert Puck's voice was soft and unassuming, but Rita heard the undercurrent of disgust that lingered.

"Yes, that's the one. Tell me, did anything strike you as odd?" Ashley quizzed.

Fenetre's eyes narrowed. "There was no mention of a trial date. I assumed it hadn't been set yet—what are you implying, Dennis?"

Puck was still poring over the story. "Cornelius Fudge? You wrote that he was one of the first wizards on the scene. Strange, for the junior minister of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes to be on an active crime scene. They usually just handle the Obliviators, the legal end of the cleanup."

"You're both correct. Skeeter, tell them."

"I just visited Sirius Black in Azkaban. He hasn't received a trial yet, and he's been told of no date for a future trial. Claims Crouch told the aurors to snap the wand and lock him away without a trial… Oh, and he doesn't have a Dark Mark and he claims Peter Pettigrew sold the Potters out to the Dark Lord. Additionally, he says he was part of some sort of vigilante army under Dumbledore. That's pretty much it-" she shrugged in understatement as Puck and Fenetre stared at the revelations "-but I do have one lead, someone who might also be able to get me more information about the crime scene itself. I'm on pretty good terms with Warren Ogleby—he's Stanley Underhill's partner and I went to school with him. Might be able to get a better sense of what's going on from him. No promises though."

"And Fudge?" Puck's eyebrows were raised over his horn-rimmed glasses.

"Don't think I have enough to talk to him now, especially if he was up to something. He seemed eager for the attention though, so it shouldn't be hard to secure an interview." Rita smiled slyly and pulled out a business card with Fudge's grinning countenance on the front of it.

Ashley nodded his approval. "I want you to keep all of us in the loop with this story. There's something going on here, and it has larger implications than just the incarceration of Sirius Black. We'll meet here tomorrow morning. See if you can get Ogleby to at least procure the records of the Ministry Holding cells. That way we can prove Black wasn't simply transferred for being a danger, but that it was as he said: he was never even held there. Anaïs, Oz, you're dismissed. Skeeter, you stay."

Rita waited while the other two left the room and Ashley fussed with paperwork on his desk. After a few moments of fidgeting, she enquired, "Sir?"

"I took the liberty of checking up on records that I have on the Black family. It looks like Black was disowned—he's got some inheritance of his own, from an Alphard Black, but being placed in Azkaban isn't going to help anyone move closer to the Black family fortune. They'd be better off killing him. If there's something going on here behind the scenes, it's probably not about his family's money. Still, that doesn't mean Black isn't wrong about Crouch being out to get him. One moment, Rita. Here." Fishing something out of his seemingly innumerable desk drawers, Ashley produced a small vial of murky, indistinguishable liquid.

"Sir?" Ashley had a habit of doing that—just infodumping and expecting people to catch up. And now he was wiggling a strange potion under her nose.

"Un-activated polyjuice. Add a hair and it'll be primed. I expect you to acquire that information, even if Ogleby isn't willing. You did not receive this from me. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good." Ashley's face softened. "Good work on the story last night. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do with this one."

Rita smiled and nodded, leaving Ashley's office feeling much lighter than when she had entered.

-§-

 _03 November 1981_

 _9:30 a.m._

As it turned out, Ogleby was not in his office at the Ministry or out on assignment. One of his co-workers had taken pity on Rita and let her know that Ogleby was taking an early "lunch break" at The Fainting Warlock.

Located in Battersea, across the Thames from most of the wizarding community, The Fainting Warlock was a popular destination for aurors in part because of its relative inaccessibility. Unlike most Ministry buildings that aurors frequented, which were built underground, the Fainting Warlock occupied the top two stories of a muggle office building that dated back to the late '40s.

To get inside, patrons had to apparate directly onto the roof because there were no stairs from the muggle portion of the building. Apparating to a specific roof in London required having been there before, limiting the clientele to aurors and their trusted friends.

And, evidently, reporters who looked desperate enough to convince auror colleagues to side-along apparate them.

Rita stumbled to her feet and smoothed out the long skirt she wore under standard black robes. "You sure you don't need a drink, Bones?"

Amelia Bones shrugged. Her stern face broke into a small smile. "Another time, Ms Skeeter. And preferably not during the day." With a pop, she apparated back to her Ministry office.

Rita shook her head. Bones was wound much too tight, although it was understandable. As one of the few full aurors who were both young and female, there had been a great deal of pressure for her to succeed in the war—one which claimed the lives of her parents. That kind of stress was part of what had kept Rita away from the front lines… in addition to a healthy dose of self-preservation and the fact that she had really never been one for dueling. All told, it was more than enough reason to be a reporter on the sidelines.

The inside of The Fainting Warlock was clean and well lit, by pub standards. High wooden ceilings lit by smokeless torches presided over a relatively quiet bar that shied away from both the dingy and extravagant. Simple and practical. _I can see why the aurors like it_.

Rita found her mark at the end of the bar, beer in hand

"Mornin', Ogleby."

Warren Ogleby had a forgettable sort of face, with slim features and flat, brown hair. He had been in Rita's year—a half-blood Ravenclaw who would've done well in Slytherin with his aloof persona. Helpless with transfiguration, he'd asked Rita for her skills in exchange for tutoring her in charms. Rita had gotten him to passable, which was evidently more than enough for the aurors. Ogleby had a quick wand and an even quicker eye. Even as a seventh-year, he'd been a talented duelist, with a knack for countering spells on the fly. After Hogwarts, he'd joined the aurors and had been one of the few young recruits to make it through the war unscathed.

Although, if the beer he was nursing at 10 in the morning was any indication, he probably hadn't made it out quite unscathed, Rita thought.

"Skeeter?" He turned, puzzled. "What are you doing here?"

"Bones was nice enough to give me a lift."

"Oh. What're you here for?" he said, taking another swig.

"I want to talk to you about Underhill. He looked all sorts of messed up at the crime scene in Stratford."

Ogleby scowled. "Yeah, figures he'd be right mad about that one."

"Can you elaborate?" Rita's quill was hovering anxiously over a pad, ready to scribble down all of the details so that she could focus on asking questions.

"Fine, but hold on." Ogleby took another swig of the beer to finish it off, then picked up his wand and tapped the bar in front of him twice. Rita raised an eyebrow at the lazy, effortless construction of a silencing field. Sound seemed to still filter in, but she was quite sure that nothing they said could be picked up by anyone outside the translucent bubble. Not your everyday magic.

"No notes, Rita. Let's just talk. "

Rita frowned, but assented, putting the pad away.

"Does Underhill know Sirius Black?"

"Caught that, did you? Yeah, the crime scene was bad. That's not what he's in a muck about. Black was his trainee. Damn good one too. He was working with Underhill for almost a year in the accelerated training program before he up and quit."

"So they had a close relationship while Black was there?"

"Yeah, like I said, Rita. Stan was his mentor. I worked with the kid a bit too. He was good with a wand, even better with a joke. Him and Potter—they came in and the left at the same time. Inseparable in team exercises. It grated on him, it really did-"

"Underhill?"

"Mhmm. It grated on Stan that they left—both of them were some of the most promising recruits. But they got frustrated at not being allowed in the field. So they left, only a month or two before they'd have been promoted from trainee. Didn't tell Stan anything. Just left a note that said they were tired of waiting to see real action, tired of showing up to crime scenes ten minutes too late." Ogleby gestured for another drink. "Can't say I blame 'em."

Rita drank it all in. She'd known about the accelerated program. It spit out aurors in half of the usual three year time for the war. By most accounts, it had been a success and the new recruits had been able to integrate into the standard auror corps without issue. Sure, the rigor of the program meant that the attrition rate was higher—but this was the first she'd heard about talented recruits dropping out.

"So what did they do? Go off and be vigilantes?"

"Something like that. Had to do with Dumbledore, we think. He was gathering his own network of people to do… stuff." Ogleby gestured helplessly. "I don't really have any more info on them than that. We weren't really keeping tabs on them. Too busy with Death Eaters. I'm sure someone's responsibility was to look into them, but you'd have to ask a more senior auror about that."

"And you think Black joined them?"

"It's possible. But again, just rumors that I've heard, nothing verified. Not sure why you're wasting your time on him though. Men found at crime scenes laughing maniacally generally tend not to be innocent."

"Well, that is interesting. You think it's likely that Black joined the Dark Lord without a Dark Mark?"

Ogleby hesitated. "I didn't know that. How did you-"

"Would the Sirius Black you knew about a year ago have joined?" Rita cut him off, moving forward.

"No, not the Sirius Black I knew. A week ago, I would've been sure. But now… well, the evidence points in unpleasant directions, Dark Mark or not."

"I understand. That's why I'm trying to get to the bottom of this."

There was silence between the two, and the faint bustle of the pub could just be heard filtering in.

Ogleby broke first. "So what are you really here to ask me for, Rita? We both know you didn't need to check up on Stan because he looked like someone kicked his puppy." Ogleby tried to make a joke, but it fell short, and his grin didn't quite reach his eyes.

Rita sighed. "I visited Sirius Black in Azkaban yesterday." Ogleby blinked.

"Well, that was quick. Did he get moved from the Ministry Holding cells for some security reason? I know they couldn't have had a trial yet. Does he really not have a Dark Mark?"

"He says he was never in the holding cells, and that Crouch told men on the scene there'd be no trial. And yes, I saw his left forearm. Completely bare—no way to hide that in Azkaban."

"What?" Ogleby hissed quietly, forgetting that the silencing field was in place. "He was sent straight to Azkaban without a trial? You must be joking."

Rita shook her head. "I'm not. That's what he told me, and I don't think he'd have any reason to lie. But I don't know what happened, and the first place I need to look—need to check—is the ministry holding cells, where every convicted witch or wizard should go first."

Ogleby was silent, mulling over this new information.

"I need to get those records to check his story, Warren." She added a little imploring edge into her voice.

"Alright, alright. I'll get you those records. This is shady as all bollocks, so I'm not going to the Prophet's office though—I'll pass them to you via floo."

"Thanks. I'd love to stay and chat, but, well, work calls." Ogleby nodded.

"Take care of yourself, Rita." _That's a cautionary warning if I've ever heard one._

"You too, Warren." She turned and walked up the steps, the vial of polyjuice potion un-primed, weighing heavy in her purse.

-§-

 _03 November 1981_

 _11:30 a.m._

The Department of Magical Transportation was located on the sixth floor of the Ministry. Bemusedly, Rita realized that she had now visited the sixth floor of the Ministry more times in the past two days than she had in the past year. She really needed to travel more.

Stepping into the Office of Apparition, Rita immediately noticed the differences between it and the office that Elspeth worked in, just down the hall. Brightly decorated and staffed by at least half a dozen chipper wizards and witches, it was night and day.

"Cami!" Rita waved with only half a forced smile.

"Oh, Rita—hello! What can I _dooo_ for _yoooou_?" The witch smiled broadly, elongating her vowels in a sing-song voice. A fair amount of effort allowed Rita to plaster an ingratiating smile over her face. Camilla Stretton responded well to such courtesies, and if Rita wanted information, it would be easier to be polite.

"Hi Cami, sorry to be a bit brief-"

"Oh, that's not a problem dear, not a problem. Why, it's been ages since I saw you last—you've changed your glasses! And don't they look great. They frame your face so well dear." The maternal woman paused to stare her while Rita squirmed.

Camilla Stretton had met Rita at the start of her career at the Prophet, during a time when splinchings were being blamed on the Office of Apparition. An investigation that Rita had taken part of determined the cause was actually a result of hexes applied by mean-spirited pranksters who were out of Hogwarts for the summer. Ever since, Camilla (who was insistent on being called Cami, despite being almost 40 years too old for such a nickname, in Rita's opinion) had been a fervent admirer of Rita's for clearing up the situation to her benefit.

"Can I talk to you about a private matter?"

Eyes behind gaudy red glasses sharpened, but the smile remained in place.

"Just for _yoooou_ , my dear. Come, come, step into the hallway with me. Now, what is this about? You've got me looking rather suspicious."

"I need to confirm an alibi. I need you to check the apparition records in the Ministry from around… 9 in the morning yesterday. I need to know when and where Cornelius Fudge apparated from."

The smile turned almost sickly sweet. "Rita, dear. You _knooow_ that those files need be processed and approved with an official inquiry. I couldn't possibly take them out and _shooow_ them to _yooou_."

"I'm not asking for that, Cami. All I'm asking is that you check for me. Answering a yes or no question couldn't hurt, could it?" A bit of exasperation grew into Rita's voice.

"Now look here, Miss Skeeter." Her voice took a sharp turn at the tone in Rita's voice. "I do not run some sort of 'Information Depot' where I just give out data to the next reporter who walks through the door with cute little glasses and-"

Rita cut in. "Need I remind you, Stretton, that I have information from a very reliable source—information that details how you, personally, were asked to address that splinching situation; information and photographs that prove that instead of spending your time doing fieldwork that would have caught the perpetrators, you spent it wasting Ministry time and money getting manicures in Horizont Alley. Do I need to remind you of our agreement during the investigation? Do I need to remind you that your good standing; that your job rests upon my refusal to publish your malfeasance?"

Gone was the wide smile. A baleful snarl came over Stretton's chubby face as the color blanched from her cheeks. She paused for a moment to think over the situation, and crossing her arms, seemed to relent.

"F-fine. I'll owl the records to you tomorrow."

"Tonight, Stretton. Have a nice day."

Rita turned on her heel, leaving the sputtering woman behind. _There's more than one way to call in a favor._

-§-

 _03 November 1981_

 _2:30 p.m._

"Skeeter!" Dennis Ashley's voice rang across the newsroom.

Rita slumped at her desk, halting her notes. _What now?_

Ashley took his time walking to her before he spoke again, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "They've got a Death Eater in a hearing in half an hour. Rumor is that he's one of the higher ups—wants to give away names for a plea bargain. I want you to go."

"Uh, but sir—doesn't Jensen usually handle court proceedings?"

Ashley gave her a meaningful look. "I want corroboration. I want to know immediately if he mentions Black. I'm sending you."

Rita was already in motion, stuffing her notes into her handbag and gathering her belongings. "What's his name—the Death Eater?"

"Igor Karkaroff."

-§-

AN: Just wanted to address potential questions about the focus on the lack of a trial. Britain has a strong tradition of _habeas corpus_ that literally predates (but was enshrined) in the Magna Carta. It is that old. While I'm aware that Rowling sent Hagrid to Azkaban in The Chamber of Secrets, it strikes me that this should not be the case. Therefore, a major plot point here is the fact that Sirius was not granted a trial (which is canon).


	4. For men that sow to reap

**For men that sow to reap**

 _For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind: it hath no stalk: the bud shall yield no meal: if so be it yield, the strangers shall swallow it up._

—Hosea 8:7

-§-

 _03 November 1981_

 _2:30 p.m._

Rita decided that she had been back to the Ministry one too many times in the past few days. The room she was currently in was more like a dungeon than the courtroom it purported to be. A bleak, forbidding air filled the space. Windowless walls stared silently back at her assessing gaze. Rows of benches were all positioned toward the center of the room where a chair sat on a dais. It was instantly recognizable, though she'd never seen it in person before.

Anyone who'd followed trials in the Prophet knew about it. Some people referred to it as "The Accusation Seat," but Rita knew aurors who simply called it "the chair."

It was a tall structure, made entirely out of smooth black stone that Rita could guess as to how it had been shaped. _Bet it feels as comfortable as it looks_. What made the chair notorious were a pair of golden chains lurking on the arms. When they were so inclined, these chains would menacingly wrap themselves around the accused. How exactly this worked was a matter of speculation, since older enchantments often grew a life of their own, as various spells and wards tended to blend together over time.

The chains couldn't actually determine guilt, but they did seem to pick out the guilty more often than not.

Wizards—mostly wizards—and witches filed into the courtroom. Rita recognized a fair number, but there were many more she did not know. But she could tell that this was no ordinary trial; this was an assemblage of the full Wizengamot. Just as the door was about to close, an unmistakable figure entered.

Albus Dumbledore had assumed the mantle of headmaster after her third year, and Rita had not been a fan of the change. Dumbledore had been her transfiguration teacher, had recognized her talent, had coaxed her interest in the subject. It wasn't that she had been particularly prodigious or special; that was just who Dumbledore was as a professor. But as the headmaster, he had far less time for students. So she and other Slytherins had been forced to put up with the Gryffindor-biased authoritarian that was Minerva McGonagall. For Rita, it was as though her kindly old grandfather had been replaced with a strict nun. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the memory.

Dumbledore made his way up the steps swiftly easily, belying his advanced age. Catching Rita's eye, he smiled and sat down next to her.

Rita Skeeter, as a rule of thumb, did not get starstruck. But this was Albus Dumbledore and he was sitting next to her. He was, without a doubt, the most powerful wizard in Britain.

As she assessed him from the corner of her eye, Rita noticed that he was wearing more subdued apparel than usual. In the lighting, the purple appeared almost regal. Long, slender fingers knobbed at the knuckles rested gently in his lap. There was no sign of a wand, but Rita knew one or more had to be hiding in the voluminous sleeves of his robes.

Glancing back toward the dais, Rita was surprised to find the forbidding air of the chambers had somehow chilled even further. When a door at the far end of the room opened, she knew why.

Two cloaked figures entered. These were the inhuman floating avatars of despair that had so polluted Azkaban. While she'd been there, the dementors had been sent away, but their presence had lingered in ways much worse than the effect of the two currently here. Perhaps the sheer number of people in the courtroom were somehow diluting the dementors' power? Either way, it still wasn't pleasant. She gulped, and turned away, slightly nauseated.

Suddenly, a voice in her ear spoke.

"Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

Rita whipped her head around. Dumbledore's face was somber, but his eyes were twinkling.

"A what?" Shoot. That wasn't what she'd meant to say.

"A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

Unsure what else to do, Rita accepted with a nod. A delighted grin flashed across Dumbledore's face and the corners of his lips twitched upwards. _Most people probably turn him down, don't they?_

From a pocket somewhere in his purple robes, Dumbledore produced a small sweet wrapped in a clear covering. Puzzled, Rita watched as Dumbledore surreptitiously withdrew an elegant lance of a wand. _What in the world?_ Momentarily, all thoughts of the dementors, the courtroom, and the world were forgotten as Dumbledore worked his magic. He tapped the hard candy once, waited, and then tapped it again.

The sweet rose into the air and seemingly unpeeled itself, clear wrapping untwisting and folding out to become an even rectangular sheet that rolled up into a scroll and zipped into one of Dumbledore's pockets, leaving behind the naked candy. Rita had held her breath, expecting for the crinkling to cut through the quiet air like the piercing wail of a Howler. Instead, there was nothing but silence. She opened her mouth to ask Dumbledore if he'd _Silencio'd_ the candy, but just as she did, he gave a wink and the candy sped forward through her open lips.

Turning back to the scene before him, Dumbledore's faced returned to a neutral expression, though the twinkle was still there. Rolling the sweet around in her mouth, Rita decided that she rather liked sherbet lemons.

At the dais, a haggard looking man who looked as though he was about to faint was lowered into the chair by the pair of dementors flanking him. Their task done, they glided out of the courtroom to the obvious relief of everyone present.

Slumped in the rigid chair, Igor Karkaroff did not seem to Rita like an imposing Death Eater who had perpetrated atrocities.

He was dressed in thin, ragged robes, and shook—likely an aftereffect of being carried by the dementors. What would've been well-maintained black hair and a black goatee were stringy and matted awkwardly.

The chains, which had been lying dormant, seemingly sensed their prisoner, and encircled his arms.

"Igor Karkaroff," said a curt voice from the center of the court where most government officials were. She looked around and saw Barty Crouch standing up in the middle of the bench. "You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us."

Rita exhaled. No one had quite intimated what the purpose of the trial was, just that it was important. _It had better damn well be._

Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair.

"I have, sir," he said, in a quavering, obsequious tone that she was sure he'd given to the Dark Lord as well. "I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I—I know that the Ministry is trying to—to round up the last of the Dark Lord's supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can…"

She perked up. Now _this_ might be good.

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Rita heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledore's other side, a growling voice saying, "Filth."

She leaned forward to see past Dumbledore. Alastor Moody—an esteemed auror—was sitting there. He was looking down upon Karkaroff, eyes narrowed in intense dislike.

"Crouch is going to let him out," Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. "He's done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he's got enough new names. Let's hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors."

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose.

"Ah, I was forgetting… you don't like the dementors, do you, Albus?" said Moody with a sardonic smile.

"No," said Dumbledore calmly, "I'm afraid I don't. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures." Rita was _absorbing_ the conversation.

"But for filth like this…" Moody said softly, and trailed off.

"You say you have names for us, Karkaroff," said Crouch. "Let us hear them, please."

"You must understand," said Karkaroff hurriedly, "that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy… He preferred that we—I mean to say, his supporters—and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them—"

"Get on with it," sneered Moody. Rita privately agreed, but her quill—magically enchanted—was all too happy with the pauses. The self-writing implement strained to keep up with the pace of most conversations, but it was still faster and easier on the wrist than transcribing by hand.

"—we never knew the names of every one of our fellows—He alone knew exactly who we all were," Karkaroff finished.

"Which was a wise move, wasn't it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in," muttered Moody.

"Yet you say you have some names for us?" said Crouch, somewhat impatiently.

"I—I do," said Karkaroff breathlessly. "And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely —"

"These names are?" said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting him off.

Karkaroff drew a deep breath. "There was Antonin Dolohov," he said. "I—I saw him torture countless Muggles and—and non-supporters of the Dark Lord."

"And helped him do it," murmured Moody.

"We have already apprehended Dolohov," said Crouch. "He was caught shortly after yourself."

"Indeed?" said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. "I — I am delighted to hear it!" But he didn't look it. Rita could tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless.

"Any others?" said Crouch coldly. "Why, yes… there was Rosier," said Karkaroff. "Evan Rosier."

"Rosier is dead," said Crouch. "He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle."

"Took a bit of me with him, though," whispered Moody. Rita looked around at him once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore.

"No—no more than Rosier deserved!" said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now. Rita could tell that he was starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff's eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors were undoubtedly still waiting.

"Any more?" spat Crouch.

"Yes!" said Karkaroff. "There was Travers—he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber—he specialized in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!"

Rita could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together.

"Rookwood?" Crouch inquired, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. "Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?"

"The very same," said Karkaroff eagerly. "I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information—"

"But Travers and Mulciber we have," said Crouch. "Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide—"

"Not yet!" cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. "Wait, I have more!" Rita could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard. "Snape!" he shouted. "Severus Snape!"

"Snape has been cleared by this council," said Crouch disdainfully. "He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore." Rita sharply turned toward Dumbledore at this,.

"No!" shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. "I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!"

Dumbledore had risen to his feet. "I have given evidence already on this matter," he said calmly, but his voice echoed through the chamber. "Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined

our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am."

Rita turned to look at Moody. He was wearing a look of deep skepticism behind Dumbledore's back.

"Very well, Karkaroff," Crouch said coldly, "you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime."

Karkaroff sputtered, and looked as though he wanted to say more, but the presence of the dementors sweeping into the courtroom must've frozen his tongue. The door closed behind the captive and his eldritch captors, and the courtroom erupted with noise. Murmurs of gossip and the rustling of robes filled the silence as witches and wizards made to leave, parsing what had just happened.

"Goodbye, Rita," Dumbledore said genially. Before she could return the gesture, he was gone, swept into a crowd of nattering Ministry officials.

Rita looked down at the transcription her quill had produced. She groaned. _I'm gonna have to go back to Azkaban, aren't I?_

-§-

 _03 November 1981_

 _5:30 p.m._

"He didn't mention Black," she said flatly.

Ashley snorted, and Rita detected a hint of frustration and disappointment.

"Oh, sure," she rolled her eyes and adopted a mocking falsetto. "Mr Crouch, Mr Crouch. I'd like to ask Mr Death Eater a question about a man you sent straight to Azkaban without a trial."

"Point taken." Ashley leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers behind his head in subdued contemplation. Rita smirked, crossing her arms at the rare victory.

"You do know this means you'll have to go back to Azkaban tomorrow, right?"

She groaned.

-§-

 _A.N.: Some portions adapted from_ Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire _, Chapter 30, The Pensieve_


End file.
